Who is Leila?

Ghosts of the Past

Leila had barely walked a few blocks from Techno's towering glass building when her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, seeing the familiar name flash across the screen.

Ryan.

She pressed the answer button, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. "I was wondering when you'd call."

"You met him, didn't you?" Ryan's voice was steady, but she could hear the tension behind his words. He had always been more cautious, more careful than she was. They were a team, but Ryan was the one who liked to stay in the shadows, working behind the scenes.

"Yes," Leila replied coolly. "Mark Donovan. He hasn't changed much. Still so self-assured, thinking he's untouchable. But he has no idea what's coming."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then Ryan spoke, his voice quieter now. "Do you think he remembers? Us? The fire?"

Leila's eyes darkened as she stared out at the city, her mind drifting back to that horrible night. "I doubt it. He's spent his whole life forgetting. That's what the Donovans do. They move on while everyone else burns."

"You don't know that, Leila," Ryan said softly, his tone familiar and comforting, like it always had been. "We were friends once, remember? He wasn't always like his father."

The mention of their childhood stirred something deep inside her, a flicker of a memory she had tried to bury. She remembered the three of them—Mark, Ryan, and herself—before everything went wrong. Back when her name wasn't Leila but Emma.

Emma Matthews.

Her father, Ryan's father, and Mark's father had been inseparable, building Techno from the ground up, dreaming of a future filled with innovation and promise. But that future had crumbled when greed and betrayal tore everything apart. Ryan's father had been imprisoned after a supposed financial scandal, and soon after, the fire had engulfed the Matthews' building.

The only one to emerge unscathed from the wreckage of Techno's fallout was Steve Donovan—Mark's father.

"We were friends," Leila—no, Emma—said quietly, her voice bitter with the weight of old wounds. "But friends don't abandon each other."

Ryan didn't respond immediately. He knew what she meant. He had been there too, both of them standing helplessly as the fire raged. They had knocked on Mark's door that night, desperate and terrified, hoping their friend would help them. But no one answered.

And the next day, they saw Mark leaving—his father sending him abroad, safe from the consequences, while they were left to fend for themselves. They had waited for a wave, a comforting smile, some acknowledgment from their friend. But Mark hadn't even looked their way.

Leila could still see the scene in her mind, as vivid as if it had just happened: the plane taking off, Mark leaving them behind. She had lost more than her father that night. She had lost her friend—and something in her had shattered.

Ryan's voice broke through her reverie. "Leila, we have to be careful. You know what's at stake. We can't let emotions get in the way."

She smirked, her gaze cold as ice. "I'm not letting emotions get in the way. This is about justice. Mark Donovan may have forgotten what happened, but I haven't. I won't."

Ryan sighed softly on the other end. "I know. Just remember... I'm with you. I've always been with you."

Leila softened, her anger momentarily subdued. Ryan had been her rock through everything. He was the only one who had stayed by her side after her father's death, the only one who understood the depth of her pain and her need for vengeance.

"I know, Ryan," she said, her voice gentler now. "And I'll never forget that."

She ended the call and slipped the phone back into her pocket. Her mind was spinning, a web of plans and memories intertwining. This was just the beginning.

Across town, Mark Donovan sat in the quiet of his living room, a glass of scotch in his hand. His house was as sleek and modern as his office, every detail meticulously designed. But tonight, Mark wasn't paying attention to any of it.

He was holding an old photograph, his eyes scanning the faded image of three children, laughing and carefree. Mark, Ryan, and Emma—back when they had been inseparable. Before everything had fallen apart.

Mark's thumb brushed over the face of the little girl in the photo—Emma, her dark curls bouncing, her blue eyes shining with mischief. He hadn't seen her in years, hadn't heard a word from either of his old friends since the fire. But he had never stopped thinking about them.

The fire.

It had haunted him ever since. He could still feel the searing heat, the thick smoke choking him as he ran into the burning building, trying to save Emma. He remembered the blinding pain when he was knocked over by the smoke and debris, losing consciousness before he could reach her. By the time he had woken up, it was too late.

The surgery in Germany had restored his sight, but it hadn't erased the guilt. He had tried to find them, tried to reconnect with Emma and Ryan, but they had vanished. And now, all he had left was this photo—his only link to the past.

Mark's brow furrowed as he thought about Leila Simmons. There was something about her that gnawed at him, something familiar that he couldn't quite place. The way she carried herself, her piercing blue eyes, her determination...

She reminded him of Emma.

He shook his head, dismissing the thought. It couldn't be. Emma was gone. But still, the resemblance lingered in his mind, refusing to let go.

Mark set the photograph down and stared out at the city, a knot forming in his chest. He had been trying to make up for the past, to do right by the people he had lost. But now, with Leila's arrival, the ghosts of his past were stirring again.

And he wasn't sure if he was ready to face them.